


Dreams Really Do Come True

by TheWalkingDebt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A little, Amanda Palmer - Freeform, Angsty Dean, Dean-whump, Dream World, Dreaming, F/M, Mostly Fluff, References to Drugs, References to Suicide, Sara Bareilles - Freeform, Shipper Sam, Sort Of, a little bit of swearing, a normal Winchester amount, angsty music, bit angsty, for instance, maybe less, so good times ahead, that's the reader's fam, younger/older age gap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 01:05:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11956482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWalkingDebt/pseuds/TheWalkingDebt
Summary: "When you wish upon a starMakes no difference who you areAnything your heart desiresWill come to you.No request is too extremeWhen you wish upon a starAs dreamers doFate is kindShe brings to those to loveThe sweet fulfillment ofTheir secret longingLike a bolt out of the blueFate steps in and sees you throughWhen you wish upon a starYour dreams come true."





	Dreams Really Do Come True

“Dean!” you cry, hurrying to his body, a comatose form locked up in chains and a practically ancient IV stuck into his arm. Sam covers you, looking for the djinn as you check out the gaunt and pale face of the man who had rescued you from these same creatures just two years previous. And in two years, you cared more for the Winchesters than you had for your family of nearly twenty-two years.  
  
Then again, it was hard to care for an alcoholic mother and distant father when they both refused to have anything to do with you, or a little sister disowned three years ago for the boyfriends she had and drugs she took, or an older brother that killed himself when you were sixteen.  
  
It was hard to care at all, after that, actually.  
  
Until you met Sam and Dean, who couldn’t be more like the family you wished you had.  
  
And now one of them was dying.  
  
“Dean!” your hands go to his face, stroking at the thin cheekbones and eyes running wildly over his body. Nearly four days locked in a storage block, and he’s already looking so… ill. His skin is pale as snow, and his blue veins snake like thin rivers so clearly under it. There are dark bags underneath his eyes, and you can even spot a little bit of grey flecking beginning in the roots of his hair.  
  
You smirk weakly as you think of all the jokes you can get on him for getting white hairs first.  
  
If he stays alive.  
  
“Careful,” Sam warns you, lamb-blood coated sword at his side. “It could still be here.”  
  
“We need to get him out, _now_ ,” you ignore his caution in favor of tugging at the handcuffs on Dean’s wrists, securing him to the chair bolted into the floor. You tug your lockpick from one pocket and feverishly get to work on it. Nothing matters more than simply getting Dean out. “C’mon, c’mon Dean…!” You unhook him from the IVs and pull out bandages from your pocket, wrapping them around the sluggishly bleeding wounds that cover him. “C’mon, baby, open your eyes for me, c’mon…!”  
  
Your name comes out from between his slow-moving lips, garbled by mumbling and confusion; big green eyes flickered up at you, framed thickly by sandy eyelashes.  
  
“Dean!” you breathe, so happy he’s alive, you can’t even care if he heard your little blunder on the nickname there. Your hands fly up to his cheeks, rubbing away the dust of the storage locker from his eyelids, tender in your every touch.  
  
“Where’s…” he blinks around, eyes still mostly squinted, voice weak and cracking with disuse. He swallows. “Sam? Jess?” his gaze lands on your hands, taken nervously from his face, now that he’s semi-conscious, at least. “Where’s your ring?” he sounds panicked, voice tight. His hand jerks up to grab your wrist, but his grip is loose. His eyes are still sleepily dilated, and he’s clearly starving. He has little strength left, and that burns something deep inside of you.  
  
“C’mon, Dean, we gotta get you outta here,” you urge, ignoring his questions. You remember being so confused when pulled out of your dream world, wanting only to go back to the warmth of what a real family was, what your parents and siblings should’ve been like to you and each other.  
  
Having an actual relationship with someone who loved you and would do anything for you. Although, apart from the regular sex and kissing, you had that in reality now.  
  
You hear Sam cry out your name. Instinctively, you spin around, putting your body between the attacker and Dean. You see blue tattoos glowing like fire before something hard thunks into your boot. Not even looking, you scrape the sword off the floor and jam the pointy end deep into the djinn, staring it coldly in its dying eyes.  
  
“You hurt him,” you growl, twisting the blade sharply and enjoying the pained look on the creature’s face. “You won’t ever do that again.” With a final jerk up, so the blade shoots up into the djinn’s heart, you leave it to die, turning back to Dean.  
  
He’s staring up at you with squinted and tired eyes, confused, but alive. Your name slides out in a befuddled whisper.  
  
You grin, mostly with relief, pretending it is cockiness, “Guess who’s up, Sam? Sleeping Beauty.” A sort of pained look seems to slide over Dean’s face, his gaze quickly returning to his bound ankles.  
  
Odd for him, but then, dreams of your wildest wishes usually leave you… wanting.  
  
You remember how much you fought coming back to reality.  
  
It hadn’t been a pretty withdrawal.  
  
*  
  
Dean’s tired, all the time. He sleeps all the rest of the day, or at least, remains in his room. He doesn’t come out until far past breakfast the next day, and after yours and Sam’s run, after you started lunch.  
  
“Hey, sleepy head,” you tease as he wanders out, thumb and knuckle pinching the bridge of his nose. He stares at you a moment, then his gaze wanders down, looking at the food you make, and he swallows. “Nice dreams?”  
  
He jerks, and you admit, that was probably a bad choice of words, “Yeah. …Not really.” He shakes his head. “Dunno.” He coughs a little, trying to distract himself, it seems. “What’re you making for lunch?”  
  
“I’m heating up ravioli and meatballs,” you return your gaze to the pot, smiling as you stir it a little more. “But there’s lunch meat in the refrigerator, leftover meatloaf from last night’s dinner, which you missed by stewing in your room all day I might add, and…” you gasp as his arms circle your waist, his chin resting softly on your shoulder as he watches the pot with you.  
  
For a moment, you just stand there, frozen, breathing slow as Dean makes himself comfortable around you. Then, you have to say something, because this is making you want… “Uh, Dean, what’re you doing…?”  
  
He blinks at you, then jerks and pulls away. “S-sorry, I…” he swallows, eyes sliding to the side. “Um. Tell me when lunch’s ready?”  
  
“Yeah,” you stare at him oddly, kind of wishing you hadn’t pointed it out. His body had been a flat line of heat and comfort against yours, something you hadn’t felt properly since your own dream. The hunting life didn't make much room for looking for dates. And your giant-ass crush doesn't seem like it's budging anytime soon, so there's no way you'll be able to even think of dating until that's well and gone.  
  
Not that Dean's helping by being so... there. And hot.  
  
He nods, retreats, gives you one last hasty look before completely darting out of the kitchen. You sigh and return to stirring the food. It’s pretty much done, but you thought of making bread to go with it.  
  
…Dean would like garlic bread.  
  
When you finish toasting the halved loaf in the oven, you brush your hands off and head for Dean’s room. The door is shut, and music plays distantly from behind it. You smile as you recognize it to be Sara Bareilles’ Gravity.  
  
…I thought that I was strong  
But you touch me for a little while,  
And all my fragile strength is gone.  
Set me free, leave me be!  
I don’t wanna fall another moment into your gravity…  
  
“Since when do you listen to this stuff?” you tease, knocking as you open the door. Dean blinks up at you from the bed, a pink flush on his cheeks as he wipes his eyes.  
  
…So tall, just the way I’m supposed to be  
But you’re onto me, and all over me…  
  
“Shut up,” he mutters, turning it off, albeit reluctantly, it seems. “Food?”  
  
“Yeah,” you smile. “I made garlic bread. I know you like it all buttery…” he looks at you with the strangest expression, a mixture of sudden sadness and fright. “You okay?”  
  
“M’tired,” he suddenly mutters, turning over and burying his face in the pillows.  
  
You blink.  
  
“Dean, you need to eat,” you worry, coming closer to the bed.  
  
“Not hungry,” he growls, suddenly irritated and unhelpful.  
  
You make a noise of anger yourself, crossing your arms, “It’s been almost twenty four hours, you idiot…” you sigh, suddenly just sad for him, remembering your difficulties transitioning. And you’re not sure whether Dean, the way he is and the mindset he has, will be any better at throwing off total happiness than you had been.  
  
“I’ll bring it to you, alright? But you gotta stop wallowing sometime. It only makes it worse.” Your hand reaches out to comfort him, but he pulls away, shifting the sheets tighter around him.  
  
Your heart aches at that, that he doesn’t want your touch, but you remember being overly sensitive about touch after being ripped from the djinn’s powerful spell. It was probably thanks to not having been really touched in a long while.  
  
“Okay,” you murmur, dejected anyways, and leave to get a bowl and dish for him. “Don’t go anywhere…” you try to joke, but it falls flat when his only response is to turn the music back on, but the song has changed. It goes back to his usual heavy rock’n’roll, and you’re not sure whether that’s good or bad.  
  
You leave the door just the slightest bit open so you can prop it with your foot when your hands will be full.  
  
You’re humming Gravity as you return, the dish balanced in the crook of your arm, the same hand holding a bowl of ravioli and meatballs against your chest, and the other hand securing a cup of foamy milk.  
  
Maybe after some food, he’ll feel a little bit better…  
  
The door is more open than when you left it, and the music is off, but you hear voices.  
  
“—Sam, shut up, you don’t get it…!” Dean’s angry. And bitter. But mostly angry.  
  
”You weren’t like this last time you got jumped by a djinn!” Last time? Dean had been jumped before? You wonder what was different between the two dreams, that this one was… worse? Stronger? What had changed that made it different from the ‘last time’?  
  
“Yeah well maybe last time wasn’t after all this shit we’ve had to go through, before…” Dean trails off without finishing that sentence, seemingly unwilling to. Before…?  
  
“Before what?” thank you, Sammy!  
  
 Dean’s quiet for a long moment, “Before I had to deal with your whiny girly ass for the last like million years.” …Okay well that isn’t it.  
  
“Dean, that’s not funny,” Sam sounds exasperated and worried, and you agree, biting your lip for him.  
  
“Tell me about it,” Dean grumbles back, and now you have to go in before you eavesdrop too long.  
  
“Lunch!” you sing, grinning ear to ear as brightly as you can. “Hey, Sammy, there’s a pot on the stove if you want some, and I cut the bread all up if you want a slice. I know you’re shit with the bread knife…”  
  
“Shut up,” Sam pouts, and you laugh at his bitchface, glancing to Dean as subtly as you can. He looks… distant. Like he’s somewhere else, and it’s making him smile in his eyes even as his mouth simply waits.  
  
Sam shoots Dean another form of a bitchface, “Just, tell us when you’re ready, alright?”  
  
Dean shakes himself out of wherever he was drifting, “Yeah, yeah, then we can sit in a circle and braid each other's hair while watching The Notebook.”  
  
“I prefer The Proposal if we’re gonna watch a romance movie,” you shrug, setting the bowl and plate down on the table and taking a quick sip of the milk. What, you were thirsty! And it was practically spilling over… “And if we’re doing hair, I request a French braid, at least. More practical.”  
  
Dean snorts, and you smile at pulling an amused response from him at last.  
  
Sam leaves Dean with one last glare before leaving for food.  
  
Smart man.  
  
“Gimme,” Dean gestures to the food, finally succumbing to the need.  
  
You smirk triumphantly, “Sit up, princess. You can’t eat lying down.”  
  
He grumbles as he sits up, but does so, and you approach with the food, setting the bowl down between his crossed legs and bread just above it. He squeaks when your hand touches the blanket above his crotch, and you laugh at him before handing over the milk.  
  
“Baby,” you tease, and his eyes go glossy for a moment.  
  
“Dick,” he snorts, and you laugh. After his first accidental use of ‘bitch’ on you, he teasingly called you a dick, and it’s just as fond as ‘bitch’ is for Sam.  
  
You usually call him ‘wench’. Just cuz you can.  
  
Dean starts picking at the food, absently sliding his meatballs to the side and cutting them up into littlest pieces, then did the same with the ravioli. You fluff his pillow and sit it up behind him nicely. He eyes you, a sad smile in the corner of his lips, and that same uncertain look in his gaze.  
  
“What?” he asks, when you stare back.  
  
“What-what?” you tease gently, finishing with that and coming around the side of the bed, hands on hips.  
  
“You,” he looks so confused and unhappy, but the layers of something else cover it, just a little indistinct. He smirks a bit. “Aren’t you being a perfect little wife?”  
  
“Shut up, brat,” you flush a dark red, secretly and actually slightly pleased at the jest. Despite it being just that. “Eat your food and shut up… my sick husband.” He grins at that, an actual big grin, so happy and beautiful… then… he swallows and looks at his food.  
  
“Thanks,” he murmurs, finally eating, and you sigh and leave the room.  
  
“Anything for you, my love,” you leave with this last joke, shutting the door behind you.  
  
The music isn’t long to start up again, and now it’s Amanda Palmer. You should probably find it odd that he’s suddenly listening to music you’ve been trying to get him to listen to forever, but you don’t. Well, obviously it’s slightly odd, but you don’t want to fight it in case he gives it up in embarrassment.  
  
You’re certainly not going to ask why he’s picked up the more piano, soft-spoken, girl-sung songs. Not when you pick your singers so carefully.  
  
I walked down my street at night the, city lights are cold and violent.  
I am comforted by the, approaching sound of trucks, and sirens  
Even though the world’s so bad, these men rush out to help, the dying!  
And though I am no use to them, I do my part by simply smiling…  
  
And Ampersand was your favorite wallowing song.  
  
…It had to be coincidence. Had to be.  
  
*  
  
“The ghetto boys are cat-calling me as I pull my keys from my pocket I, wonder if this method of courtship has ever been effective. Has any girl, in history, said sure you seem so nice, let’s get it on…” you’re singing to yourself quietly, not thinking of why it's even stuck in your head. You’re just making breakfast and hoping Dean joins you today.  
  
It’s been nearly a week.  
  
“I think he’s getting worse,” Sam confides in you from the table, looking all manner of stressed and concerned. You frown, serving up the eggs and bacon.  
  
“Five days aren’t gonna solve everything, Sam,” you sigh. “Remember how long it took for me?”  
  
“No, but Dean would,” Sam mutters to himself, stirring the hot sauce into his eggs. You make a face at it. Ew. Then you think about what he said.  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you make a face, confused.  
  
Sam shakes his head, “Ask Dean.” He scoops up a mouthful of eggs and bacon and shoves it in his mouth. He always complains about Dean’s bad eating habits, but then conveniently forgets them himself whenever he’s hungry enough.  
  
You make a face about his avoidance and pick at your eggs. “Is he gonna eat or should I take it to him again?”  
  
“I’ll get fat if I keep doing that,” Dean’s rumbling voice is amused. Of a sort.  
  
“After seeing the way you eat on a daily basis, I've been wondering how you aren't since I met you,” you tease lightly.  
  
“Yeah, man, and since when did you care about that?” the little brother in Sam is a nasty one, sometimes, and you love it. Sometimes, you learn a whole new side of the brothers in their playful moments. Dean’s face goes pink.  
  
“Shut up, bitch,” he mutters, then glares sulkily at you. “Dick.”  
  
“Wench,” you grin, then nod to the breakfast. “Want some?”  
  
“Yes please,” he reconstitutes his face to apologetic and pleading, then a bit of a playfulness and shy expression. “Little wife.”  
  
“Oh my god, don’t start with that again,” you laugh, feeling a tingle down to the center of you at the stupid nickname.  
  
“Why not?” he grins at your blushing face, and he looks so proud of himself you can’t believe you brought that look to his face. “You like it.”  
  
“About as much as you’d like ‘little husband’,” you shoot back, unable to keep your eyes from going to Sam. He only raises his eyebrows at you, amused by the two of you, and yet… a little sad? He looks like he knows something now, something you don’t.  
  
“Maybe I do,” he falters a little, eyes falling from yours but a moment, then returning strong. “I do.”  
  
You raise your eyebrows, “There ain’t a priest around, Winchester, unless you count dear devoted Sammy.”  
  
“Don’t put me in the middle of this,” Sam looks even more amused than before, his fork raised with a bit of uneaten food on the end. “I just wanted to watch you two being all old married couple.”  
  
You flush darkly at it being pointed out so clearly by someone else. It was different when you two teased each other about it, but when Sam did it…  
  
“Yeah well ain’t she a cute little wife?” Dean’s arm sweeps you to his side, pressed hip-to-hip with him, and his chin rests on your head. You’re slightly (entirely) stunned.  
  
“Get off,” you can’t stand this, this closeness and yet being so far. You shake off his arm and head for your room, throat thickened and a rock hanging in it heavily. It weights on your heart and stings like poison.  
  
Now you’re the one sulking, and you hate that.  
  
*  
  
He's asking for you again.  
  
Your bed is warm and you refuse to leave it.  
  
He's not gonna leave. Keeps repeating your name in that same worried tone.  
  
Nope. Never leaving it. Too soft and comfortable.  
  
“C’mon, please…” his voice on your name is pure misery.  
  
You don’t care how sad he sounds; you’re staying in here, far away from his depressed eyes.  
  
“Listen to me, I’m sorry, just… please come out?”  
  
Never.  
  
…You throw off the blanket and stride to the door, unlocking it reluctantly. “What?” you growl.  
  
Dean makes a face, “I’m the one that got ripped out of his dream world, and you’re the one sulking.”  
  
You scowl back, “If that’s all you’re here to say…” because you know that, and you’re angry enough at yourself for it already. You don’t need anyone else repeating it.  
  
“No, wait!” his eyes go wide as he keeps you from shutting the door on his face. He grimaces. “It’s just…” he sighs, drops his head. “I’ll tell you about my dream.”  
  
You blink. “Why?”  
  
“Because,” he rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. “You just… it’ll explain everything, okay? Just, come here.” He turns and heads for his room. You blink after him, then follow slowly.  
  
You almost forget what you’re wearing until he turns around and his eyes nearly pop out of his skull.  
  
“It gets hot under a metric ton of blankets,” you defend, embarrassed. You’re wearing the Batman boxers you saw in the guy’s section when you went shopping with Dean and Sam, a must-have for you as a nerd. The tank top is skin tight and thin, as well as old, so the grey material shifts just above the hem of your boxers as you move.  
  
Whatever. It’s basically summer clothes for you, anyways.  
  
“Y-yeah…” Dean licks his lips then sits down on the bed, shaking his head. He puts his hands to the side of his skull, fingers sliding through the roots of his blonde-brown hair. “Um, just…” he sighs. “I don’t know where to start.”  
  
You look at him for a moment, then take a seat next to him, playing with a loose hem of your clothes. Your glance goes up then, after a short moment, but to the wall. “I dreamt I was a well-to-do café shop owner. It was modest, and cute, with all the things I said I’d do if I started one. There was all the nerd stuff I liked on the walls and books in shelves and cheap but good coffee…” he smiles and you laugh. “What?”  
  
“Now I know why you complain about prices whenever we go to get breakfast,” he snorts to himself, looking down at his hands.  
  
“Yeah,” you shake your head. “And my family was… well. A family. Like they’re supposed to be, y’know? Mom didn’t drink, Dad didn’t disappear, my brother was alive and happy with his girlfriend, and my baby sis was taking online classes and learning to be a jazz dancer like she wanted…” you sigh, leaning against him slightly. His arm comes around your back, hand clasping your shoulder soothingly. It rubs up and down and you look him in the eyes.  
  
“When you guys pulled me out of my dream, I thought I’d hate you forever. At least if I died there, I wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t have had to face reality.” You tip your head to the side, smiling faintly. “But then, I wouldn’t have this.” You rest your hand on his arm and curl into his side. “I would’ve missed out on knowing what a real family is, not just my made up one. I wouldn’t be fighting evil and doing good for others. I’d only have been helping myself, and I would be dead by now.”  
  
His eyes look shiny wet, and you wonder how you made him look so upset. “So, thanks for saving me. I don’t think I ever told you that. Or for taking me in and dealing with my dickish ass.”  
  
Dean snorts, turning away with a strange little grin at that, and you laugh at his ridiculously immature mind. “Oh get your head out of the gutter, Winchester.” You slap his neck and lean into his chest, resting somewhere around his heartbeat. He freezes up a little, but then relaxes into you with a sigh. “I’d’ve missed this.” You murmur into his t-shirt, smiling even as his touch relaxes you so easily.  
  
His arm tightens around your back warmly. “I’d’ve missed you too, dick.”  
  
“Wench,” you shut your eyes, grinning.  
  
“Brat,” he countered.  
  
“Stupid-face,” you look up, squinting at him.  
  
“Stupider-face,” he grins down on you, noses just inches from the other’s. He jolts forward just a little, falters, then makes a determined face and leans forward. You nearly yank away, but he only tucks his head next to yours, nose buried in your hair.  
  
It feels more intimate than a kiss, somehow.  
  
Then he starts talking, slowly, before building up, “I was married.”  
  
“Huh,” you feel a weight sinking deep in your belly. No wonder he didn’t want to touch you before. It must have felt like he was cheating on… her. His perfect… wife. Suddenly the nickname stung even more, that he could ever call you that, and you nearly shove him away. But he’s trying to tell you something. Trying to tell you about his dream.  
  
You. Not Sam.  
  
“Yeah, I know, figured Sam would be married first, y’know?” Dean chuckles, sore and sad sounding. “He had this girlfriend. Jess. Back at Stanford. She was in the dream too. Apparently, I’m even sappier in my relationships than he is, ‘cuz he and Jess were together and all, but like, that progressive type nonsense. Y’know. ‘What does a bit of paper mean’ and all that.” Dean makes a face, obviously disagreeing. “His choice. I dunno.”  
  
His voice trails off as he thinks, his breath blowing hot on your neck and ruffling your hair. “We all lived in the bunker. I think cuz… this is home. To me, at least. I know Sam thinks of it as his workplace and you…”  
  
“This is my home too, Dean,” you grip his hand, pulling back to face him, worried. “You know that, right?” He breathes out softly against your face, smiling ear to ear.  
  
“Yeah, I do,” he chuckles, bitter sounding, your breaths intermingling so intimately. The words are powerful, especially after the whole ‘wife’ nickname debacle. His forehead rests against yours as he leans in, relaxing against you, and you don’t know how to feel about this. He’s so soft and loving, but it can’t be the kind you want.  
  
He never said anything about you in the dream, though.  
  
“So, what happened to me?” you wonder softly. “Lemme guess, I own like fifty cats and insist you get Benadryl instead of leaving the bunker with my feline army.”  
  
“Close,” his laugh is but a short breath. “We… you had two cats. Named after your two favorite weirdoes, Perchik and, uh, PK.”  
  
“You remember that?” you laugh, disbelieving. You’re fairly certain you were both very drunk when you admitted that, after a movie night that lasted probably four hours too long with only two movies.  
  
“Well you did show me that whole, what, three hour Bollywood movie?” he nudges your nose with his, grinning ear to ear. You notice now your hand is still in his as he grips it tighter. “And how many times did we watch Fiddler on the Roof cuz of your weirdo Russian-Jewish crush?”  
  
“Shut up,” you hide your face, red-cheeked.  
  
“So is it just that you happen to like those guys cuz they’re quirky and different, or do you just like foreign men?” he teases. “Cuz I can be quirky and different, but foreign...”  
  
“You are different,” you agree, laughing, hardly noticing the allusion he leaves. He’s just being Dean. Flirting's in his nature. “I dunno about quirky, but you do have a weird thing for slinkies.”  
  
“Hey, that thing was the size of my head!” he protests. “Anyone would find that cool!”  
  
“Nope, just you, sweetie,” you shake your head again, laughing at his little pout.  
  
For a moment, you both lapse into a comfortable silence, simply breathing in the other’s inherent scent. It’s a weird, tense comfort, like anything could happen but nothing would. It would be cozy, if not for your stupid gushy feelings.  
  
“She…” Dean’s voice broke, but he clears it quickly, and you look to him as he speaks. “My dream was… longer than it was before.”  
  
“We couldn’t find you,” your voice breaks just a little, still terrified of the idea of losing him so easily. “I couldn’t…”  
  
“No, no,” he hushes you, gentle and soothing. “It’s okay, I’m here.” He breathes hard, “I, I was there for what felt like… a very long time.”  
  
You hug him hard, feeling your heart break all over again. “You don’t have to…”  
  
“I do,” Dean interrupts sharply, then a small, wry chuckle wriggles into the trailing end of that short meaningful sentence. “We… I had…” he sighs heavily, getting serious. “My wife… was you.”  
  
Startled, you pull back, looking for the lie in his eyes. It couldn’t be. Not you. He deserves better than you. He deserves so much more than he ever gets, why would he ever settle for you?  
  
His look falters just a bit, but he strides on, stuttering just a little, “W-we had kids and grandkids and they were, god, they were just beautiful and I…” Dean looks so strangely upset but hopeful, and you’re not even sure your heart is truly beating anymore, everything’s hitting you so fast. “I miss them every day. I… I miss you, every day.” He waits, fingers fidgeting against each other as he blinks at you.  
  
Your stunned silence and retreat makes his eyes close off, and he looks away, “It’s… I know you’re younger than me, and, and you have so much more… you don’t… it’s not important if you…”  
  
“It’s very important, Dean!” you protest, grabbing him by the front of his jacket, turning his face back to you. His eyes look so sad, so disbelieving anyone could care. You soften. “Even if I am younger, I think I know what I want.” You gather a deep, uncertain breath, “You’re very important to me, Dean.”  
  
And with that, you close the distance, pressing your lips oh so chastely to his.  
  
Dean sighs, as if he’s been waiting for this for a lifetime, his hand slipping into your hair, thumb pressed to the bolt of your jaw. He smells like natural cologne, tastes like dinner and mint, feels like heaven. It’s better than you’ve ever imagined.  
  
You separate slowly, eyelashes gently fluttering open again, peering cautiously at each other’s faces. And at first he’s just a little bit stunned, too out of it to say anything, then his hand scratches the back of his neck.  
  
“Did…” he’s nervous, and it’s adorable – _he_ ’s adorable. “Did that mean… anything?” he looks about ready to run if you reply negatively.  
  
“It means the world to me, Dean,” you assure him, moving so your legs straddle his hips, grinning down on him with what felt like the purest form of happiness burning through your entire body. “You mean the world to me,” you lean in again, breathing over his skin. “Dean Winchester, I just might be in love with you.”  
  
He surges up, hands clasping your waist as his lips meet yours again, hungry and excited now, much stronger and hotter than the first kiss. Your toes curl and your heart pounds as he takes utter control, sensuous moans rolling from those soft pink lips with each rocking motion of his hips bucking beneath you.  
  
“So... _huh_ ,” you two separate for air, breathing heavily, grinning ear to ear. “Dreams really do come true, then?”  
  
You laugh, about ready to slap him for such a stupid quip, but you settle for more kissing. Which seems like a good compromise at the time. All the time, really.  
  
(Later he’ll tell you about how every day was more like ten years in the dream, a horrifying notion at the time because holy crap, he saw you grow old but Dean only laughed it off. He teases your vanity, then goes on to ramble about your children and when they grew up and had kids. You’re in tears within moments of his describing your first child, Destiny.)


End file.
